


Yours, Viola

by cryptaknight, smutty_claus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: smutty_claus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptaknight/pseuds/cryptaknight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smutty_claus/pseuds/smutty_claus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy just wants to forget the night she spent with Ron Weasley. Unfortunately, Ron won’t let her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours, Viola

**Author's Note:**

> Written by cryptaknight as part of the smutty claus exchange.

  
**To: yamapea  
From: Your Secret Santa**   


> **Title:** Yours, Viola  
>  **Author:** [cryptaknight](http://cryptaknight.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Pairing:** Ron/Pansy (background Draco/Hermione)  
>  **Summary:** Pansy just wants to forget the night she spent with Ron Weasley. Unfortunately, Ron won’t let her.  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Length:** ~11,600 words  
>  **Warnings:** none  
>  **Author's notes:** Sincere thanks go out to K, S, and R for the beta work, plot bunnies, late-night chats, and just generally letting me whinge and vent and cheering me on. I adore you all. Yamapea, I wish you a very happy holidays, indeed, and I hope this fic can play a part in a lovely holiday season.

 

This was all Draco’s fault. Pansy was certain of that. Yes, it was absolutely, definitely, without a doubt Draco’s fault that she was in this predicament. That she was in some shoddy flat with blankets for curtains and a ridiculous twin bed with a saggy mattress. And that on that sad little bed in the sad little flat was a sad little pillow, which was currently occupied by a large amount of drool and a shock of red hair.

It was Draco’s fault that she’d spent the night with Ronald Weasley. Pansy was torn between wanting to go to his flat straightaway to throw her handbag at his head and to tell him in no uncertain terms what a complete arse he was, and wanting to Obliviate both Weasley and herself to ensure that Draco never found out that this had happened at all. Of course, Draco was off on his honeymoon, which had a great deal to do with why she’d ended up making the drunken mistake to end all drunken mistakes, so Pansy supposed the first option was right out.

So what she did instead was get dressed very quietly and tip toe from the room. Weasley never stirred at all.

She apparated just inside her own door, grateful that being a witch at least spared her a walk of shame. When she caught sight of herself in the looking glass, she was doubly glad she’d done so- she was mussed from head to toe. Her previously elegantly coiffed head had hair sticking out in snarls from the elaborate style she’d worn to the wedding, and the hem of her bridesmaid’s gown was horrifyingly askew. Of course, if Granger had shown the good taste to have floor length dresses, perhaps that wouldn’t have happened, but the common bint had chosen tea length (for a Malfoy wedding, really), and since Pansy had dressed in a hurry in her haste to escape, her slip dangled a good inch below the hemline.

Pansy supposed she ought to be glad Granger hadn’t dressed them in Gryffindor gold and scarlet; the cursed woman had actually chosen a soft rose shade that complimented most of the bridal party, which had shamefully consisted of Pansy, Ginny Weasley, and some _Muggle_ woman, of all things. If anyone had ever told Pansy that Draco Malfoy would have a Muggle attending his wedding, much less standing up front with him, Pansy would have declared them barking mad. Then again, she should have said the same had anyone suggested her oldest and dearest friend would be marrying Hermione Granger, and yet she’d stood up and witnessed the damned thing just yesterday. Pansy hadn’t intended to accept Granger’s invitation to be a bridesmaid, but Draco had plead with her, and Pansy never had been terribly good at saying no to him. So there she’d been, flanked by a ginger and Muggle. Was it any wonder that she’d begun drinking directly upon arrival at the reception?

Pansy had been surprised, however, to see Ron Weasley in attendance. She’d imagined his temper to be such that he’d throw a fit and refuse to go on principle. Potter or his sister must have coerced him. Whatever the reason, he was there, and even more bitter about the nuptials than she’d been. They’d shared a drink for that reason, and one drink turned into several more. And somehow that had made going home with him an attractive prospect.

The remainder of the evening was largely a blur, though Pansy couldn’t escape the niggling, humiliating feeling that she’d rather enjoyed herself. When she’d awakened, she’d found herself hoping it was all some awful sort of dream. But it wasn’t- she’d looked to her right and there he was, with that red hair and those long, gangly limbs, and a good deal of exposed skin that was covered with entirely too many freckles. Horrifying. And completely Draco’s fault.

He’d married Hermione Granger, and Pansy had slept with Ron Weasley. If she wasn’t very, very certain Potter was straight, she’d suggest him to Blaise, and they could hit the Gryffindor trifecta.

Pansy shuddered, then unhooked her dress, letting it puddle on her bathroom floor. Giving the stupid thing a disdainful sniff, she flicked her wand at the entire apparatus, smiling just ever so slightly as the taffeta went up in flames, the fabric incinerated before she slid into the waiting shower.

~*.*~

Ron was groggy when he finally woke up. With one eye cracked, he looked at the clock on the telly-tray that functioned as his nightstand. Oh, damn. Damn and blast. He was supposed to meet Harry and Ginny for breakfast. About an hour ago. Bloody hell.

He floundered out of bed, grabbing the nearest pair of trousers from the pile of laundry scattered on his floor. He pulled them on, yawning, and made for the loo to brush his teeth. His foot caught on something, and he stumbled, catching himself against the wall.

What on earth? He bent, staring at the flowery thing that was on his floor. That was a rather odd thing to be on the floor of his flat, though he had to admit his floor seemed to collect strange things without him knowing how they got there most of the time. Upon inspection, however, he recognised the object in question as one of the bouquets from Hermione’s wedding.

Hermione’s wedding... Ron whirled, staring at his rumpled bed. Oh, yes. Oh, god. Parkinson... and he... they had... done _that_. They had. Or he thought so, anyway. He tripped his way back to the bed, the bouquet still clenched in his hand. Cautiously, he bent to sniff the pillow. Yes, they had. If the scent of her perfume and shampoo hadn’t convinced him, there was a long strand of deep brown hair laying across the pillow, confronting him accusingly. Then, not even realising what it was he was doing, he bent and inhaled once more.

He’d never imagined he’d know so definitively what Pansy Parkinson smelled like.

He hoped he hadn’t made a complete idiot of himself. It was a dim hope.

With a sigh, he pulled a jumper on and apparated to Diagon Alley, where he was meant to meet his sister and Harry. He tried to think of a convincing excuse, but none came to mind, and when he located them at the coffee shop, the pair of them wore knowing grins even as Ginny tutted over the state of his appearance.

“Oi, mate, what kept you?” Harry teased. “Worried sick, we were.”

“Shut it, Harry,” Ron grumbled, stirring a good amount of sugar into his black coffee. “Got a bit pissed last night, if you didn’t notice. Which would make you a right shitty Auror, you know.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, and sipped his own coffee, before tearing off a bit of a pasty and saying conversationally, “You’ve a love bite, Ron. Just there, on your neck. Is that observant enough for you?”

Ron’s hand rose to cover the spot, and his damnable sister giggled. “Didn’t leave alone, I take it?”

“No,” Ron admitted, privately thinking this line of questioning was a bit much before a fellow had even had his first cuppa. He glared across the table at the grinning twosome. “We were both a bit pissed. I reckon she doesn’t even remember much of it. In any case, she was gone by the time I woke up, and that’s probably for the best.”

Definitely for the best, considering who his mystery girl was.

“Viola would say you ought to ring her up. As a courtesy,” Ginny said, giggling again.

Ron stared at her, non-plussed. He took a long deep sip of his coffee, nearly burning his mouth, before he asked, “And who the bloody hell is Viola?”

“She writes a column in the Prophet.” Ginny tapped the paper that was strewn over the table. “Romantic advice.” Ginny paused, looking at Ron and Harry defensively. “What? This prat kept us waiting over an hour. I had to read something.”

Ron snorted and shook his head. “Well, my night was hardly romantic. And I think it’s best forgotten.”

But all day long he kept catching whiffs of Parkinson around his flat, and he wondered if that was really true.

~*.*~

It wasn’t fair. Pansy had been sitting at the Leaky Cauldron, quite minding her own business. And now there was tea all over her hard work, and she had nothing but a pile of soggy parchment to show for the last hour of her life.

“Oh, fuck, Parkinson, I’m sorry!”

The oaf actually was attempting to set her papers to rights. Pansy snatched it away in a hurry, before he could nose any further into her business, and set about glaring at him with as much deadly intention as she could muster, wishing she could set him ablaze in that fashion.

“Just leave it be, Weasley,” she hissed. “Just leave _me_ be.”

She wondered if she’d accidentally spoken to him in French, because instead of vanishing from her sight as she wished he would, Weasley was actually sitting down across from her. She nearly gaped at him, then caught herself and resumed glaring.

“I don’t believe I invited you to join me,” she said coldly, drawing her wand and attempting a restorative spell.

“Aw, c’mon, Parkinson. I said I was sorry, and I really am. Here, let me buy your tea for you.” He stayed where he was, and Pansy released a long-suffering sigh.

“Are you certain you can afford such a lavish expense?” She arched an eyebrow as she discreetly gathered her papers, turning them face down next to her, well away from the now empty tea cup.

Weasley rolled his eyes. “Oh, hell, I’ll even buy you two. The one I spilled and one to replace it.”

“Oh my,” she sniped in return, “such extravagance. What a lucky girl I am today. Of course, I wouldn’t need a replacement tea if you weren’t over here pestering me to begin with. So perhaps my luck shall remain in question.”

She didn’t feel lucky. Pansy had hoped to never share a conversation with Ron Weasley again, much less a cup of tea. But he didn’t seem like he planned on budging, and he did owe her tea. She decided to allow him to remain for the moment.

“Why were you pestering me, in the first place?” she finally asked, as much to stop his unnerving staring at her as to get any sort of answer.

Weasley shrugged. “Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Sorry if I ruined your... what was it you were working on?”

“I supposed I should have expected it,” Pansy deflected. “Given the state of your flat...”

She trailed off. There it was, what she’d been hoping to avoid- acknowledgment of their ill-fated evening together. She pursed her lips and looked away.

“Yeah, about that-” Weasley started, but Pansy turned her gaze sharply back to him, and cut him off with a slash of her hand through the air.

“No,” she said through clenched teeth. “We are _not_ going to talk about that.”

“But I thought I ought to-”

“What part of ‘no’ do you fail to comprehend, Weasley? Oh, bugger all this.” She stood, snatching her parchment up and tucking it into her case. She preferred working at the pub, but if it meant suffering this fool gladly, she’d go elsewhere. “You can take your tea and shove it up your arse.”

She whirled away and strode out, leaving Weasley with his mouth hanging open, rather like a particularly daft monkey. As she pushed open the door, she heard him say almost nonsensically, “Viola was _wrong_.”

She waited until she was well down the alley before she let the hysterical laughter overtake her. It didn’t sound very pleasant, even to her own ears.

Her life was a mess.

~*.*~

It was probably an abuse of Auror privilege or something, what Ron had done. Moment of madness- that’s what he’d say if anyone got hacked off with him for it. That wasn’t a total fabrication, anyhow. It was pretty damned barmy to risk his job just so he could look up Pansy Parkinson’s address.

It was only that she wouldn’t answer his owls. Or take his firecalls. Which was probably a giant, whopping sign that he should just let her alone, but Ron had never been one to give up easily. Some called it thick; he called it persistence. Whatever you wanted to call it, it had led him here, to her doorstep, which was surprisingly not a manor in Wiltshire but a modest flat not far from his own in the wizarding section of London. Ron considered it a pleasant surprise, though he reckoned Pansy was probably less than thrilled.

He wasn’t even really sure why he’d felt the compulsion to see her. She’d made it pretty well clear that she didn’t want much of anything to do with him. Maybe it was left over from that day at the Leaky, before he’d gone over and made a muck of things by dumping her tea all over the place. Pansy’d been bent over her work, obviously blocking out the entire world around her, and she’d been... different. Soft. Not all hard and mean looking, but more like how Hermione’s face went dreamy sometimes when she was puzzling out something that really tickled at her brain. Pansy had worn a look like that. And it had called to mind other soft things that Ron remembered about her, things he shouldn’t know but did, and almost without realising he’d been moving at all, he’d found himself at her table. Spilling things and whatnot.

Ron sighed, and rubbed at his neck. This was surely a giant mistake.

He pressed the doorbell.

“That was quick!” Pansy said, rifling through her handbag as she pulled the answer.

“Were you expecting me?” Ron asked, nonplussed.

Pansy wasn’t looking up, which likely had something to do with the surprising note of happiness in her voice. She paused in her rifling, looking up at him. Ah, there was the glare he’d been expecting.

“You,” she said, “are not curry delivery.”

“Nope,” Ron answered cheerfully. “Though I reckon I could whip up a cunning costume if you give me moment. Actual curry might be a bit more difficult.”

Pansy made an exasperated noise. “Well, then you’re quite useless, as it’s the curry I’m interested in, not the person bringing it to me.”

“I can go get curry, if it’s that vital,” Ron offered, grinning cheekily.

“No, I’ve already ordered it, dolt. Otherwise why should I be expecting a delivery person, hmm?” Her tone was nearly teasing, and she must have recognised it as such, because she quickly narrowed her eyes again. “What are you doing here, Weasley?”

“You’ve got ink on your nose,” he said, instead of answering her. It was true, she did, right on the ski-jump tip. “I don’t follow the fashion columns or anything, but it’s very fetching. Setting a new trend?”

Pansy’s hand flew up to her nose, rubbing irritatedly at the spot. “No,” she said shortly. “I was working. I rub my nose when I’m thinking. Draco used to tease me about it. Said that’s why it...”

“Why it looks the way it does?” Ron finished.

“Yes, Weasley.” Oh, Merlin, there was the glare again. “It’s why my nose is so very unattractive. And why I’ve shared that with you, I haven’t the slightest idea. I’ll ask you again, why are you here, interrupting what, up until now, was a perfectly lovely and productive day?”

Ron shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Parkinson...” He stuck his hands in his pockets, and rocked back on his feet.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Fine.” She made an exaggerated gesture, showing him in. “But once my curry turns up, off you go.”

The internal Auror in Ron made it impossible not to take a surreptitious look around the flat as he followed Pansy inside. The place was crowded, but orderly. It had the look of a much larger place, condensed down into cramped quarters. He suspected that there was more than one spell in place allowing extra room, even so. And it was very, very feminine. He spotted what he thought he properly identified as a doily, and the predominant colors were lilac and pale yellow. It was pretty, just nothing Ron was used to.

Pansy led him to a small dinette, upon which was more of the parchment that he recognised as her work from the Leaky. Again, she was very careful to sweep it all into a neat pile, face down. A protective gesture, no doubt. She probably didn’t trust him, after last time.

“Tea?” Pansy asked, sounding very put upon.

“That’d be brilliant, thanks,” Ron said, unconcerned.

He caught her eyeroll as she went to the kitchen to fetch the kettle, and smiled to himself. He was really just quite pleased to have even made it inside, which was more than he expected. While Pansy got the tea together, Ron found himself fidgeting in his chair. And eyeing that stack of papers. He had to admit he was dreadfully curious what sort of work Parkinson was doing. He hadn’t figured her for the working girl type. Then again, he hadn’t figured her for the tiny flat type, either.

His long fingers stole across the table, almost of their own accord. One peek couldn’t hurt, really, and it might help explain why she was so prickly about working. He tilted the topmost piece of parchment toward him, frowning in confusion as his eyes scanned the lines of looping cursive on it.

 _Dear Viola,_

 _I need your help most dreadfully. I met a bloke at a party, and I’m afraid I’ve moved too fast-_

“Youch!” Ron yelped, as scalding hot water landed on his fingers.

“How dare you,” Pansy hissed at him, teeth clenched. “How dare you rifle through my personal things? I knew this was a mistake. Out. Get out.”

Ron jumped to his feet, upending the delicate white wicker chair in the process. “Parkinson, look-”

“No, Weasley. You look.” She advanced on him, still brandishing the kettle in a menacing fashion. “I allowed you into my home, uninvited, against my better judgement. Why, I don’t know. Probably because I felt it polite, considering I’ve shagged you. All right? Is that what you want to hear? Yes, I shagged you. I don’t remember much of it, but I’m sure it was bumbling and awkward despite my best efforts. I don’t care to repeat it. So let’s make this perfectly clear- stop following me around. Stop approaching me in public. Stop turning up on my doorstep.”

Pansy’s face was a breath away from his. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

It was probably another epic mistake, kissing her just then. Her face was so very close, and her eyes were flashing, and her cheeks were flushed, and he really wanted her to stop yelling at him. For a moment, it was good, the feel of her mouth under his and her long hair tickling his face and that warm floral scent of her becoming his world for a moment or two. And then it was bad, because she gave him the slap he so richly deserved, and Pansy Parkinson, as it turned out, was stronger than she looked.

“OUT!” she bellowed, outraged.

His cheek stung like flames were licking at it, and he stumbled backward until he was at her front door. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologised profusely, but it was too late, and the kettle was swinging in his direction. “I’m bloody well sorry!”

His hand found the doorknob, and luckily Pansy hadn’t locked it behind them, so it turned easily. First stroke of luck since he’d gotten here.

“Oh, dead right you’re sorry,” she fumed, still stalking his way. Impressive, really, when he considered how quickly he’d been moving and how much shorter her legs were than his.

“But, Parkinson, you don’t have to write to Viola. I don’t mind that we’ve moved quickly-”

Pansy cut him off with an incoherent shriek that somehow still conveyed her rage with clarity. And then the kettle was airborne.

Ron frantically pushed the door open, and made a hasty escape, leaving a fortunately quick-witted curry delivery lad ducking the flying kettle that narrowly missed his head.

~*.*~

Pansy had to admit that the Daily Prophet’s holiday party was much nicer than she’d expected. It helped that they’d held the gathering at the Marlborough, a wizarding hotel not far from where Pansy (and Draco) had grown up. Pansy had been envisioning a night of distasteful drunkenness in the Prophet offices- copying charms of buttocks, egregious misuse of mistletoe, that sort of thing- but instead, the party was elegant and understated. She appreciated that. It made her feel almost normal again.

As did having Draco there with her. He returned now with two glasses of champagne and cranberry juice; Pansy approved- festive without being vulgar.

“Are you certain your wife doesn’t mind my being here with you?” Pansy gave a slight disdainful emphasis on the word _wife_. She did not approve of his choice of bride nearly so much as his choice of cocktail.

“Not at all,” Draco said, sipping the reddish drink. “She’s feeding soup to the less fortunate or some such thing. Perhaps it was pie. In any case, it’s very generous and noble and I am exceedingly proud of her.”

“Though not enough so to join her,” Pansy observed dryly.

“Ah, no. I prefer to admire her from afar. But even so, Hermione has no objection to me supporting my friends, nor to me spending an evening with one of my oldest and dearest. She’s quite decent in that way. Besides, she has no fondness for the Prophet, given the way the Skeeter woman has always written about her.”

Pansy snorted, and sipped her own drink. Enough accolades for the disgustingly lucky Hermione Granger-Malfoy, she felt. “I suppose tongues will wag whether she is here or not, when I have the good fortune of being squired about by her ever charming husband. Perhaps the oh so popular Viola ought to write a column about trusting one’s significant other with the dear friends they’ve had since infancy, regardless of romantic history.”

“Mmm,” Draco said, in a noncommittal fashion. He reached out and tweaked a long strand of Pansy’s hair, curled for the occasion, over her shoulder until it was just so. “I’ve come to realise I simply don’t care about public opinion, when it comes to my personal life. I’ve decided it’s far more important to be happy.”

Pansy looked away, taking a long draw on her drink. That was certainly true. Draco had surprised them all.

“Are you happy, Pansy?” Draco’s query had Pansy suddenly snapping her eyes back to him with full attention. “I worry, you know- that little flat, and you’re practically a hermit these days.”

“I live in my flat because my parents are on the continent, as you know,” she said with studied coolness. “And I can’t stand to be in our home by myself, without the finances to do the upkeep it needs. Without even a house elf for company. At least in my flat, it’s too small to feel empty.”

She didn’t address her social life. She couldn’t whinge, not to Draco of all people, about how society turned its back on the children of Death Eaters, about how their friends that had come through the war unscathed suddenly had excuses every time she suggested getting together. Even Millicent had put her off, the last time she’d owled. He’d had it worse. Pansy knew that. And she certainly couldn’t tell him that the only visitor she’d had in recent weeks had been Ronald Weasley. Draco wouldn’t scorn her. He’d laugh, and that might be worse.

Draco shook his head, and started to say something, but interrupted himself, peering over Pansy’s shoulder.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Don’t be alarmed, but I do believe there is a Weasley staring at you.”

Speak of the devil.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Pansy groaned, following the line of Draco’s gaze. Sure enough, there was Ron Weasley, not even attempting to disguise the fact that he was boring holes into her with his eyes. Honestly, how the man had managed to pass Auror training was completely beyond her.

“He looks rather intense. Should I be concerned?” Draco’s brows had knit together, and Pansy understood that he was thinking that Weasley was angry on Hermione’s behalf. If only it were so simple.

Pansy put her emptied champagne flute on the tray of a passing server, and tucked her hand into the crook of Draco’s elbow, drawing him away. Biting her lower lip, she looked up at him, pleading silently for mercy.

“Draco, I’ve done a terrible thing. A terrible, awful, stupid thing.”

Draco raised his eyebrows in that arch way of his, but he listened. Pansy told him everything. It felt good in a way, even if it was done in urgent whispers in a corner of a rather public venue. After, she looked at him expectantly, waiting for the guffaws to begin, but they never did. Instead, she found Draco looking at her almost gently.

“You say he keeps trying to speak with you, yes?” Absently, his fingers reached for the same curl he’d adjusted earlier; Pansy batted his hand away irritably.

“Yes, so?”

“So perhaps you ought to let him have his say. Perhaps once his mission is accomplished, so to speak, he’ll leave you be. If that’s what you want.” Draco’s expression was odd, but Pansy couldn’t quite read it. That happened more and more these days. She supposed that cow Hermione would know exactly what it meant.

“It’s what I want,” she said firmly, setting her mouth in a hard line.

“Then sit down with him, as infuriating as that may be, and let him blather on about whatever it is he needs to blather on about. Get it out of his system.”

Pansy nodded slowly. “You’re probably quite right, Draco. I don’t know why I didn’t figure that out myself. Perhaps I’m just too close to it.” She sighed, then gave him a friendly nudge. “Viola had better be careful- you’ll put her out of a job.”

Draco smiled enigmatically. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

~*.*~

Ron couldn’t believe his eyes. Pansy was actually approaching him. Of course, the way she was moving toward him was rather aggressive and determined, and he did check to be certain her hands were free of kettles before he took another breath. But no, it was just her, thankfully unaccompanied by her ‘date’, looking rather lovely if one discounted the hard set of her mouth. ‘Parkinson’ and ‘lovely’ weren’t two words that had occurred in close proximity to one another in Ron’s mind until recently, but tonight the idea was undeniable.

She was tiny, something that always managed to surprise him. Perhaps her dominant personality obscured the fact that physically, she was actually fairly delicate. She had to be at least a foot shorter than he was, Ron reckoned. Her hair was longer than it had been in school; right now, part of it was piled on top of her head, while the rest tumbled partway down her back. Her skin was fair, her coloring dark, which was rather striking, really. When she wasn’t glaring, Ron thought, Pansy was actually pretty. The glaring and sneering did terrible things to her face. She wasn’t quite wearing a glare tonight, however, though her lips were pressed together tightly, which made her nostrils flare and emphasised the pertness of her nose. Unfortunate, that. Even so, the overall picture was quite nice. He offered her a cautious smile.

“‘Allo there, Parkinson.” Ron didn’t think any harm could come from acting friendly. She could hardly murder him right there in public. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I came with Draco.” Which didn’t really explain anything, but Ron supposed the Prophet might have simply invited Malfoy since he featured in so many articles; the former Slytherin had probably helped sell any number of their papers. “And I could say the same for you, Weasley.”  
“Came with Luna,” Ron answered, gesturing to where the airy blonde stood several feet away in animated conversation with Lavender Brown, who wrote the Prophet’s gossip column. “Professional courtesy or summat. She’d probably normally invite Hermione, but-”

“But Granger’s off ministering to leprous house elves or whatever. I know. Draco told me.” The corner of Pansy’s mouth lifted in a smirk. It didn’t irritate Ron nearly so much as it used to. “In any event, I don’t care at all who your date is. That’s not why I came over here.”

“Oh?” Ron asked, curious. “Then how did I get so lucky?”

“Draco said I ought to talk to you.”

Ron snorted. “First sensible thing Malfoy’s said, aside from ‘I do.’”

“I don’t want to do it here.” Pansy actually seemed a little nervous, if Ron was reading her correctly. Her fingers kept playing in the drawstrings of her handbag. He hoped he wasn’t entirely wrong, and her fidgeting didn’t signify a horrifying curse concealed inside her accessory.

“Sure,” Ron agreed, a grin crossing his face despite his better intentions. He couldn’t seem to resist poking at her. “We can make a date.”

“Not a _date_ ,” Pansy said, pushing at his arm exasperatedly. “Just, oh, coffee or something. Tomorrow?”

“I think I have a free spot in my schedule.” Actually his whole day was free, his caseload being rather light at the moment. “Just owl me with when and where, yeah?”

“ _Yeah_ , Weasley.” Pansy rolled her eyes- he expected nothing less, really- and then turned away.

Ron couldn’t help admiring the view as she walked away.

~*.*~

He was early, damnit. That was about the last thing Pansy had expected from Weasley. She’d arrived early herself, planning to ensconce herself at the table of her choice and establish the upper hand right from the get-go. But ten minutes before the time she’d designated, there he was, right by the bloody window, bloody well waving at her when she walked into Madam Puddifoot’s.

Steeling herself, Pansy put on a determined grin and made her way over to the table Weasley had chosen. The one in full view of anyone walking down the main street of Hogsmeade. Damn him. She’d chosen Puddifoot’s in the first place because it was the place she was least likely to run into anyone she knew.

“Weasley, how surprisingly punctual of you,” she sniped, as she sat down.

In front of her seat was a piping kettle of hot water, along with oolong tea. Which was her favourite, but she hadn’t ordered ahead. She looked at Weasley questioningly.

“I _am_ an Auror, Parkinson. I happened to notice what sort of tea it was that I spilled all over you before.”

Pansy pulled a sour face. “How terribly clever.” She paused, pouring the hot water over the tea leaves. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Weasley drummed his fingers against the table. Pansy wondered if he was impatient. She’d come with a conversation all planned out, but he’d already managed to throw her for a loop or two, and she wasn’t certain how to start. Then he sipped at his coffee- black, she noted approvingly- and she supposed she’d better get on with it. This had been her idea, after all.

“I suppose I don’t understand why you feel so compelled to involve yourself in my life,” Pansy said, deciding that it was best to just cut directly to the chase.

“We spent the night together, Parkinson.” Weasley sounded genuinely baffled. “That means something.”

Pansy lifted her eyes to his once more, narrowing her gaze and pursing her lips. “It means nothing beyond the fact that I was drunk and lone- drunk and irritated, and you were convenient.”

“I don’t believe that.” Weasley set his cup down emphatically, some of the coffee sloshing over the side. Pansy grimaced. “There were loads of blokes at that wedding, and some you know a lot better than me. There was a reason you went home with me.”

“Well, of course there was,” Pansy said, exasperated, as she stirred the honey into her tea. He managed to push her beyond reason sometimes. “I figured you were the only one who felt the same way I felt at that particular time.”

She instantly regretted telling him that, and she deliberately turned her head away, staring resolutely out the window.

“Are you still in love with Malfoy?” His voice was so very careful, and she hated that more than anything else about this conversation so far.

“No. Are you still in love with Granger?” she countered, knowing it was likely not so. The pair of them had broken up well before Granger and Draco had gotten involved, at least so far as Pansy knew. “But it was the end of... something. And it meant there was someone else who understood Draco like I used to, and I loathed it. And she’s so different from me and I’m alone, and...” She broke off, glaring at the faint reflection of herself in the window. “And none of that matters. You were just _there_. I didn’t expect you to make such a big deal of it. Sometimes, one night is all that’s needed. You don’t owe me anything, Weasley. And I don’t owe you.”

She turned her head, not wanting to, but knowing she looked childish otherwise. “The shagging was good, if that’s what you so desperately needed to hear.”

“So you do remember.” Weasley looked smug, and Pansy’s hand tightened on her teacup. Merlin, he was infuriating. “Because I definitely do remember. Can’t stop thinking about it, really.”

“Gross, Weasley.” But Pansy felt a warmth suffuse her cheeks. Was she that pitiful, that she was that pleased by such a roundabout compliment?

“I mean it.” Now he looked earnest, which was possibly more irritating than the smugness. “I think maybe we’ve got something. I mean, obviously we were clicking at the reception, enough to leave together, yeah?”

“Drunk...” Pansy muttered, drinking her tea,

“And the shagging was good. So what if there’s something more there? I just think we ought to, I dunno, see if there is.”

Pansy stared at him in horror. Oh, dear lord- did the man actually believe he fancied her?

“We have sexual chemistry, Weasley. There’s nothing more there. I promise you.”

“How do you know, Pansy?” Did he just call her Pansy? Oh, this was going badly. “All I know is that I keep replaying that night in my head. And I want to see you. I want to kiss you-”

“Sweet Circe, Weasley, do shut up!” Pansy hissed, looking frantically around the coffee shop. She had to put a stop to this. It was getting out of hand. “Look- if I... if I let you get this out of your system, will you leave me be?”

That did have the benefit of shutting Weasley up, at least. For a moment. A lovely, wonderful moment. Then his face took on a look that could only be described as cocky. “And what if you don’t want me to leave you be, once you have another round with me?”

“Oh, that’s a risk I’ll take,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes. Not bloody likely.

“When?” Weasley asked, leaning forward. Eager, wasn’t he? Or calling her bluff. Two could play that game.

“Now,” Pansy said. She gave him a cocky look of her own. “The Three Broomsticks has rooms.”

~*.*~

Pansy was as aggressive as Ron remembered. No sooner had they locked the door to the room- which she’d made him pay for- and she was tugging his jumper up over his chest. She couldn’t get it over his head, on account of her being so short, so Ron helped her with that. And then she reached for the buckle of his belt.

Ron groaned, sliding his hand up her thigh, exceedingly grateful that Pansy never wore trousers. He’d thought it impractical before. How silly of him.

“Parkinson, hold on.” What was he doing? Why had he said that. “Slow. We have the room for the night.”

“This is not a romantic rendezvous,” she said, even as she tugged the zipper of his trousers downward. “This is, at best, an experiment.”

“It’s not something to just get done,” he protested, feeling a little off about the whole thing, though her mouth against his bare chest was doing a very good job of distracting him.

“Weasley, this is very likely your last crack at me. Do you really want to waste it talking?”

Pansy’s hand was down his boxers, and Ron supposed he should be embarrassed that when she found him he was so damned hard already, but he found he couldn’t much care. And he also decided that she was right, he didn’t want to waste time talking. So he put his mouth to better use, scooping his hands under her arse and lifting her slightly so he could cover her lips with his.

Her mouth wasn’t set hard now; no, it was soft, yet hungry, her teeth grazing his lower lip before she yielded to his tongue. God, she tasted good, spicy like her oolong tea, sweet like the honey she’d put in it. Ron lifted her all the way off the floor, bearing her over to the bed, one impatient hand stealing up to unbutton her blouse on the way.

Once Ron had Pansy on the bed, he parted her shirt, sliding it from her shoulders. Her bra went next. Her breasts were small, one filling his hand when he cupped it. She arched when he did that, the stiff nipple pressing into his callused palm; it made Ron feel primal, and he bent his head again to ravage her mouth.

“Weasley, Weasley,” she murmured, when he came up for air.

“Sod that, call me Ron,” he demanded, before reaching up under her skirt to tug her knickers off. He tossed them impatiently onto the floor. He didn’t care about her ruddy knickers- he wanted to touch her. And he did, his hand pushing her slender thighs apart, his fingers seeking until they found her, hot and damp, and then he pressed his fingers forward until they sank inside her, his thumb resting against her clit. He circled it there, his other hand mimicking the motion on her breast.

“Ron,” she said, her voice taking on a desperate note that he rather liked.

Ron slid down the length of her, crouching between her legs and pushing her skirt up and out of the way. He drew his fingers from her, slowly. She made a sound of protest, which changed abruptly to pleasure when his tongue replaced his thumb. Pansy fingers threaded through his hair, tightening until it was nearly painful, but still he kept at her, knowing he was good at this, wanting to please her and tease her and make her yell.

When she did, he slid back up, rewarding her with kisses that tasted of herself.

“I want you,” he whispered, his voice rough. He tipped her head back, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her throat.

“I know,” she said, her hand wrapping around his cock, moving on it suggestively. She gave a throaty laugh, her thumb running over the tip of him, spreading the thick liquid that had beaded there.

Ron growled, done with words for the moment, and pushed her thighs wider with his knees. He arched his hips back, then thrust forward. He was inside her. It was amazing.

Her cry of pleasure surprised him, and it spurred him, too. His hips snapped against hers in a hard staccato rhythm. Even now, at the back of his mind, was the thought that he had to make this count. He started to shift their position, wanting to impress her, but she pulled his head back down to hers, like the bossy thing she was, and then he was lost in kissing her and no longer cared. He pulled her closer, moulding her body to his, his hips moving of their own accord now. He moaned into her mouth, his hands running desperately over her back, clutching at her shoulders, gripping her arse.

It was mindless, and it was over too soon. Oh, he brought her to her peak again, before he let himself go over the edge, but he wanted it to last and last and then last some more. It felt too good; _she_ felt too good, and he came with a sharp yell, his mouth against her hair.

Ron stayed that way for a moment, then rolled off of Pansy, knowing he would be heavy on top of her. He felt boneless; his skin was shiny with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked over at Pansy- she was in much the same state. He reached for her, cupping her face in his hand, meaning to kiss her with all the tenderness he felt just then.

She turned her face away.

“Pansy?” He didn’t understand, and he reached for her again.

Pansy shook her head, sitting up. Merlin, how could she even do that? Ron didn’t think he could sit up for an hour, at least. She stunned him further by standing, smoothing her skirt down with what he could see were shaking hands. He forced himself to sit, suppressing a groan at the effort.

“Pansy.”

“You had your go,” she said, somehow fastening her bra in that mysterious way girls had. Her shirt followed. It was missing a button, and Ron felt childishly glad. He knew she’d repair it before she was even down the stairs, but for a second he enjoyed the evidence that he hadn’t imagined the last hour. “I need to leave.”

“Pansy!”

The door closed behind her with finality. Ron was still naked.

~*.*~

Pansy didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to go have dinner with her ex and _his_ ex; she didn’t want to sit across from a pair of smug marrieds and have nothing to talk about whilst they blathered on about honeymooning in Greece and their plans for the holidays and Merlin knew what else. If they brought up children, she really might scream. But she’d promised Draco, and she’d never yet broken a promise to him and she wasn’t about to start now.

She dithered on the front step a bit longer, then finally raised her hand to knock upon the door. The house was shockingly cosy for Draco; Pansy chalked that up to Granger’s influence and the fact that the elder Malfoys would hardly have welcomed the mismatched pair into the manor. Draco had proven himself to have a flexibility that Pansy had never suspected was there.

She wondered if there was any of that flexibility in herself.

Shaking her head free of the thought, Pansy wore a slight smile when the door swung open. Draco had done the opening himself, which made sense given the smallness of the house and his general squirrelly-ness when it came to house-elves. That and Granger’s odd anti-house-elf views made Pansy suspect that they employed no servants at all. Five years ago that wouldn’t have made Pansy feel more at ease, but now it did. Funny how things changed.

Pansy managed to keep a calm control as she greeted Draco’s wife. She managed to make polite conversation throughout the meal. It wasn’t until they were taking tea and biscuits afterward in the sitting room that it all went to hell.

Once again, it was all Draco’s fault.

The prat was sitting there, his arm looped comfortably over Granger’s shoulders, looking happy as a niffler in goblin shite, polishing off a madeleine. And he had the gall to ask, “So how is... _everything_... going?”

Pansy stiffened. “I’m sure I haven’t got the foggiest notion what you mean by that very loaded _everything_ , Draco.”

She took a very prissy sip of her tea and narrowed her eyes at him. Then, to her horror, Granger leaned forward, holding out the plate of damnably home-made treats.  
“I’m quite sure he’s asking after Ron.” The bushy-headed cow actually had the nerve to smile warmly at Pansy.

Pansy set her teacup down against its saucer with an audible clank, hard enough to crack the ceramic saucer. Granger’s softly whispered _Reparo_ did nothing to calm Pansy’s ire.

“You told her?” she hissed, pushing to her feet. Draco looked up at her with something akin to alarm.

“Was I not supposed to?” he asked, the picture of wounded innocence. Pansy was not fooled.

“No, you were not supposed to!” Pansy screeched, giving Granger a murderous glare for good measure. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to faze the other woman at all.

“Well, I know Ron very well, Pansy,” Granger said, quite rationally, and it made Pansy want to throw something at her. “I think Draco simply wanted to be able to give you the very best advice.”

Granger’s calm made Pansy proportionately more irate. So she wouldn’t murder the woman in her own home, she began pacing to channel her fury. Draco was nodding, and Pansy was unable to resist swatting him on the back of the head, though that only earned him soothing petting from his wife. It was maddening. Sodding married people.

“I don’t require any advice regarding Ronald Weasley! There is nothing to advise me on. I’ve handled it.”

Granger peered up at her. “Pardon my contrariness, but it doesn’t seem handled at all, given how angry you are right now.”

Pansy threw her hands up dramatically. “I’m angry because this is none of your business, you bint. I made a mistake. I’ve made amends. It’s done.”

“Made amends?”

This came from Draco, who leaned forward, a knowing grin making him look exceptionally toothy. Pansy longed to swat him again. Instead she stomped her foot, making an incoherent but loud noise of frustration.

“I shagged him again,” she blurted out, anger and embarrassment bringing heat to her cheeks. Good god, why had she just told them that?

Granger’s hand flew to her mouth, covering not shock, Pansy was certain, but vast amusement. Draco pulled a revolted face.

“I did it to get him to leave me be,” Pansy insisted, knowing how nonsensical it sounded. “He seemed to feel obliged to get to know me or... or date me, or something. Now I’ve nipped that right in the bud.”

“By sleeping with him? Oh, Pansy.” Granger shook her head, and got to her own feet, making her way to Pansy. To Pansy’s complete mortification, Granger took both of her hands and gave her a very gentle and sympathetic look. “It was a cunning plan, but it has one major flaw.”

“Oh?” Pansy said coldly, her eyebrows knitting angrily together.

Granger gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “It involves Ron. You see, he’s a very straightforward sort. If he’s pursuing you, I’m afraid he’s in dead earnest. You’ve only encouraged him.”

Pansy groaned and sank back onto the loveseat across from Draco, who looked too amused for words. Granger took her seat next to her husband again, though she kept making those horrible sympathetic eyes at Pansy.

“Is that so terrible?” Draco drawled, plucking another madeleine from the plate. “I mean, obviously you’ve enjoyed his mysterious charms twice now. Perhaps it’s better just to give in to the inevitable future of freckled, ginger-haired babes tripping over everything.”

Granger elbowed her husband rather roughly, Pansy observed with satisfaction. After giving Draco a quelling glance, she said to Pansy, “He’s a good fellow, you know. Ron, I mean. Not this one here.”

Pansy shot Draco, who was surreptitiously rubbing at his ribcage, a superior look. Then she shook her head, burying her face in her palms. “I can’t,” she said, her hands muffling her voice. “I just can’t.”

Granger moved over to the loveseat, placing her palm in the center of Pansy’s back. Instead of shrugging her off, Pansy accepted the comfort. She was more lost that she had ever been in her entire life.

“I know it’s difficult,” Granger murmured.

Pansy turned her head, ever so slightly, meeting Granger’s eyes.

“How much has Draco really told you?” she asked, her voice a whisper.

Granger shrugged apologetically. “Everything.”

~*.*~

The scent of warm biscuits filled the air, and Ron inhaled appreciatively. “Say, that actually smells nice.”

“Gee, thanks, Ronald,” Ginny said, pulling a face.

“Oi, I’ve never seen you bake before. And since you were always pants at potions, this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Mum showed me,” Ginny said with a shrug. “Reckoned she had to pass her secrets along to someone, and it might as well be her only daughter. They’re easy Christmas gifts, anyhow. I give them to the whole office.”

“I want some,” Ron said, snaking his hand out to nick one off the tray.

Ginny swatted him with her newspaper. “Paws off. You’ll burn yourself. Let them cool.”

“How long?” Ron asked, peevishly.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Merlin, Ron- are you five or twenty five? Have a little patience.” She unfolded the paper, flipping pages until she came to one near the back. “Here, I’ll read you Viola. She’s a laugh and it’ll pass the time.”

“Agony aunt for the lovelorn?” Ron snorted but waved her on. Maybe Viola would have some words of wisdom for him. Pansy had seemed to find the advice columnist helpful, given that she’d been writing to her. “Go on then.”

“ _Dear Viola,_ ” Ginny read, putting on a dramatic voice for her brother’s amusement. “ _I need your help most dreadfully. I met a bloke at a party, and I’m afraid I’ve moved too fast._ ”

Ron sat up straighter. That sounded like the letter he’d started to read at Pansy’s flat.

“ _I’ve liked this fellow forever, but a few drinks gave me the courage to approach him for the first time._ ”

Well, that was odd. Maybe she’d changed a few details to protect herself.

Ginny continued, “ _I’m afraid I said too much. I told him how much I’d always fancied him, and he took me home with him. I thought I’d finally landed the wizard of my dreams. But it’s been two weeks now, and I haven’t heard from him. Doesn’t he at least owe me an owl or two? I’m so confused. Should I ring him? How do I make him see me as more than a one-off? Sincerely, Hopeless in Hampstead._ ” Ginny looked up. “Lord, some people. Isn’t it obvious?”

Ron was baffled, and he flapped a hand at his sister. “Well, what does Viola have to say to her?” he asked urgently. “What’s her advice?”

“Really, Ron?” Ginny looked at him skeptically. “Fine. Viola says: _Dear Hopeless, I’m afraid you’ve named yourself correctly. Men are simple creatures, and if you offer yourself on a silver platter, temptation may prove too difficult to resist. You made yourself convenient for this fellow, and perhaps he didn’t expect you to make such a big deal of it. Sometimes, one night is all that’s needed. He doesn’t owe you anything, I’m sorry to say. Perhaps now you have at least satisfied this curiosity when it comes to your Dream Wizard? It doesn’t seem like further romance is in the cards. Yours, Viola_ Merlin, she’s mean sometimes.”

“Yes, quite cruel,” Ron muttered, utterly distracted. Images, memories, were fitting themselves together like puzzle pieces.

The pile of parchment he’d spilled the tea on- Pansy had called it work. And she’d been very secretive about it.

The beginnings of this particular letter- Pansy had it in her flat- while she’d claimed to be working, earning that adorable ink smudge on her nose- though it was now obvious she hadn’t written it. But she’d been so very enraged that he’d seen it, and wasn’t that funny?

Pansy had been at the Daily Prophet holiday party- he’d assumed Malfoy had invited her, but perhaps it had been the other way around.

And most damning of all, the very words she’d flung at him at Madam Puddifoot’s that day- _I didn’t expect you to make such a big deal of it. Sometimes, one night is all that’s needed. You don’t owe me anything, Weasley. And I don’t owe you._ And now they’d been repeated, nearly verbatim, in Viola’s response.

The blood thundered in Ron’s head until it was all he could hear. Pansy was Viola. Viola was Pansy. It was ironic, and it was infuriating. Pansy Parkinson, who had left him starkers and confused in a rented room at the Three Broomsticks, was the Prophet’s resident romance expert.

Ron stood up, biscuits forgotten. Ginny looked concerned.

“Ron?”

He leaned over and kissed the top of his sister’s head. “I’ll see you on Christmas, Gin. I just remembered something I need to go do.”

~*.*~

Pansy spent Christmas working. Draco and Hermione had invited her over, but she hadn’t wanted to intrude on their first holiday together, so she’d declined. Her parents were still at Grand-maman’s in France, and Pansy had no inclination to join them in their self-imposed exile. She had learned better than to inquire with the rest of her former friends, sparing herself the pain of their transparent excuses. The only one of her former dormitory-mates she still saw was Tracey Davis, and Tracey was off having some illicit and torrid romance that Pansy couldn’t stomach the idea of interrupting.

Besides, it seemed people found themselves particularly in need of romantic advice during the holidays. Viola had a stack of letters nearly a foot high.

Pansy selected a letter at random. “Embarrassing birthmark... oh, for heaven’s sake.” She tossed it aside, selecting another. “Fancy my husband’s brother... not hardly appropriate for Christmas.” That letter joined the first. She took the next letter from the pile, which looked nice and long and juicy. “Might need editing, but this looks promising...”

She settled back in her chair, the tip of her quill in her mouth as she dove into the letter. A few moments later, she gasped. And a moment or two after that, she was pulling on her cloak and reaching for her wand. Then she thought the better of it. It was Christmas. And waiting until tomorrow would give her more time to plan. In the meantime, she re-read the letter.

That bastard.

Pansy tucked the letter inside her cloak for safe-keeping, because she certainly wasn’t answering it publicly. She busied herself for the rest of the night weeding through the stack of anonymous letters, until she had enough material for a column. Then she re-read the letter a third time before tucking it away again. Oh yes, she’d be paying him a visit come morning.

Her sleep that night was fitful. Nightmare scenarios kept playing out in her dreams. Scenes of public humiliation, private denouncement, laughing witches and wizards that pointed at her and called her pathetic. When she awoke the next morning, her covers were twisted all around her, giving evidence to the tossing and turning she’d done during the night.

Pansy had intended to make herself beautiful, wanting to be the picture of a wrathful goddess, but found that she was too impatient to do more than toss on a couple of cosmetic potions, pull on a wool dress, and swallow down a cup of tea before she Apparated to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Besides, she didn’t care if he found her attractive, did she? No, not at all.

She stormed the department despite the secretary’s protests, only momentarily nonplussed when she discovered that Weasley sat at a desk in a room full of Aurors, not in an office all his own. Well, too bad. She was too angry to care.

Ron’s head was bent over a case file. Pansy slapped the letter down on top of the file, and waited.

Weasley’s reaction came quickly, if a lot more calmly than Pansy had expected. He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. “Yes?”

She wasn’t about to let him take the wind from her sails. “You wrote this.”

“Yes, I did.” He leaned back, his face inscrutable.

“You knew I would get it. You had to. It has... details. Details, Weasley! You’re not as stupid as you play at, are you?”

“No,” he said, and for the first time Pansy saw a hint of her own anger reflected back at her, from him. “I am not as stupid as I play at. Though I think you wish I was. Do you think they would let me do this, if I was stupid?”

He gestured around at the office full of Aurors, and Pansy did deflate a little then. She’d assumed she knew him. She’d assumed she’d seen all there was to see of him. She’d been up her own arse, a little, she thought frankly.

“No,” she said, quietly. “No, they wouldn’t.” She sighed. “So now what?”

Ron tilted his head, seemingly considering. “Are you going to answer my questions?”

Pansy swallowed, remembering what he’d written. “Tonight.”

“Your place?”

She nodded.

Ron nodded as well. “I’ll see you then.”

~*.*~

Ron found working pretty much impossible for the remainder of the day, though he did give it his best effort. Why people tended to ramp up the crimes against their fellow witches and wizards during the holiday season was mystery to him, but he had a load of illegal hex cases, and more than a few burglary cases, as well. Luckily, most were pretty cut and dried, because he knew he wasn’t giving them one hundred percent. He knew he was staring off into space pretty often, because Harry kept hurling charmed bits of paper at his head and snickering.

After the fifth time his hair had been attacked by an origami bird, Ron decided that sitting and worrying wasn’t doing him any good. Oh, he’d felt ballsy enough when he’d sent Pansy that Dear Viola letter- mostly because his temper was up and when he was in a strop, Ron tended to Do first and Think later. Once the owl had taken with the letter, however, he’d begun to rethink it, much too late. He’d just been so angry.

Angry why, he wasn’t sure. Because Pansy hadn’t told him? Maybe. But Pansy wasn’t obligated to tell him. He assumed she hadn’t told much of anybody. She was obviously very secretive about how she earned a living, and Ron even supposed he could understand why; she was a Parkinson, and a Pureblood, and one of the best known jilt-ees in wizarding Britain. Possibly wizarding Europe. He could see why she wouldn’t want just anybody to know she had to earn money by playing agony aunt to the romantically challenged. But Ron didn’t think he was just anybody, now. Ron wasn’t her boyfriend- he wasn’t even her friend, really- but he still felt like he _knew_ her, and finding out that she had been hiding something so big had irked him. He’d wanted her to know that he knew.

As well, somewhere, way in the back of his mind, Ron thought that maybe Pansy’s deep dark secret was the reason she was pushing him away and holding him at arm’s length. So he wouldn’t find out. So she wouldn’t feel obligated to tell him. It made him hate the secrecy. At some point on this strange journey, he’d started to care about Pansy. To like her. And he wanted her to be a part of his life, and he didn’t want Viola to get in the way. Liking Pansy Parkinson was hard enough, when a bloke was Ron Weasley. He didn’t need Viola making it harder.

But the letter... oh, the ruddy letter. He should have figured it would make her angry. That she wouldn’t like feeling exposed and tricked and on the spot.

He wondered what, exactly, he’d be walking into that night.

Finally giving up on trying to get anything done, Ron tossed the origami bird back in Harry’s direction, and left the Ministry. Harry looked after him speculatively, but Ron ignored him. He didn’t want to do any more dithering; he didn’t want anyone talking him out of this.

He wanted to make this work, if he could.

At Pansy’s flat, he knocked on the door. She opened it so quickly that he wondered if she’d been waiting there for him. He told himself it was probably just some sort of ward that had alerted her to an impending visitor. Probably.

“Parkinson?” he asked, in careful greeting.

“Weasley. Ron.” Pansy stood back to let him in.

He slid past her, doffing his coat and scarf. He still wore his uniform, and it made him feel uncomfortably like a lad still in school.

“So?” he asked abruptly, wanting nothing more than to get right to the heart of the matter.

“After.”

“After what?”

Pansy reached up, pulling his head down and standing on tiptoe. Her mouth met his.

Oh. Yes. After was fine.

~*.*~

This was probably another stupid mistake in a series of stupid mistakes, but in the moment, Pansy didn’t care. The shagging _was_ quite good, and who could begrudge her one last go-round if everything went toes up later? And it was Ron, and even if she had trouble admitting it aloud... or internally... or at all... she’d grown a little fond of him. Used to him. Maybe she even liked having him around. Maybe there was no maybe about it.

If she was on the edge of ruining everything, she thought she owed herself one last time.

She tried to be tender with him, to keep things romantic and sweet. It didn’t work. Once his mouth was on hers, it was as though something else took over. Something hungry and primal and very, very demanding. And maybe a bit angry, on his end. There was a rough creature in Pansy that very much liked that.

She pulled at his clothes, at that ridiculous Auror’s uniform- she didn’t like him in black, he was too sunny for that, normally- tossing them behind her on the floor of a flat that was normally as neat as a pin. She didn’t care about that, either, because he was unzipping her dress, pushing it from her shoulders, pushing _her_ , back toward the bedroom.

In the bedroom, he spun her around, none too gently, and pulled her dress down around her ankles. Pansy pushed her bum back against him, challenging him. He didn’t disappoint her.

Gathering her hair in his hand- and Merlin, she did love his big hands, his long, clever fingers- he yanked it to the side, exposing her neck. His teeth grazed the juncture of neck and shoulder, and Pansy arched back against him until her head touched his chest, wanting more of his mouth, and more of his hunger. He gave her that and more; while his mouth was busy on her neck, her shoulder, her earlobe, his free hand crept up her abdomen, unhooking her bra and slipping inside to palm her breast.

Pansy moaned, unable to contain herself, and gave no protest when he bent her forward until her hands hit the edge of her bed. Reaching back, she nudged her panties away from her hips, wriggling until they joined her dress in a puddle around her ankles. She stepped out of both and pressed her hips suggestively back, feeling the hardness of Ron’s erection against the soft flesh of her arse. Then she heard his zipper go down, and her skin tightened all over in anticipatory goose bumps.

He leaned over to place a kiss between her shoulder blades, even as his fingers slipped between her legs to tease her. She felt him touch her, just there, in exactly the right spot, and she made a noise she couldn’t recognize, though she could hear the plea in it. Ron must have heard it, as well, because he didn’t waste any more time; his fingers slipped away, and then Pansy felt heat, and iron, and then he was right where she wanted him, deeply inside of her.   
All her clever techniques, all her attempts at seduction had disappeared. There was just him and her and instinctive motion, and it was good and it was perfect and she found his hands, lacing her fingers under his, squeezing them. Hoping he understood.

“Pansy...” he breathed, and she thought he did.

Pansy didn’t know how long it lasted; it could have been mere moments and it could have been hours. She simply knew that she was satisfied, and happy, and she found herself wishing that this wouldn’t be the last time. It was a terrifying wish, but she decided to draw from some of Ron’s Gryffindor bravery and face it.

He’d faced her and her temper and her stubbornness for this long, hadn’t he?

Pansy wriggled until she was sitting up, urging Ron properly into her bed. He joined her, in a boneless and floppy sort way, which she had once found awkward and now found endearing. Pansy maneuvered herself into his lap, so she could look into his eyes, something their height difference usually made difficult. She reached out, tracing his mouth with her fingers.

“You want answers,” she said, lowering her hand.

Ron nodded, uncharacteristically quiet. Pansy was grateful.

“I’m not so good with all the talking. Somehow I manage to turn everything into an argument.”

Ron nodded again, and Pansy’s lips twitched, but she kept her temper. Instead of sniping at him for agreeing with her, she leaned over and picked up a quill from her nightstand.

“I’m better at writing. As you’ve discovered.” She dipped the quill in her ink. “So... remind me of your questions?”

“From the letter?” Ron looked puzzled, but as doubtful as his face was, he began reciting. “ _Dear Viola, I’m involved with the most maddening girl. We’ve known each other for a long time, but only recently have things developed in a romantic fashion. The way we got together wasn’t ideal- we had a one off after a friend’s wedding. But it’s turned into more than a one-off, and I’ve discovered that I’ve come to truly care for this girl. The only thing is, she’s driving me barmy. She won’t give me a chance, and I don’t know what to do. Should I give up?_ ”

Pansy held up her finger, pausing him there. She put the quill to his lower left arm, and printed the word _No._

Ron squirmed. “Oi, that tickles!” But he looked down, and having seen what she’d written, began reciting the letter again.

“ _Does she think I’m not good enough for her?_ ”

Pansy moved to his left arm. Once again, she inked the word _No_ on his skin.

Ron looked up, meeting her eyes, looking a little surprised.

“ _Is it her?_ ”

Pansy moved to his chest. The quill moved across his flesh. _Yes_.

“ _Why does she insist on pushing me away? Why won’t she let me get close?_ ”

On his abdomen, Pansy wrote, _Scared_.

Ron deviated from the original letter. “Pansy, why would you be scared? With me?”

Pansy looked up, catching her lower lip in her teeth. “I’ve gotten quite used to being alone. Letting someone really know me...” She shook her head. “And... you... I... This wasn’t in your letter to Viola, Ron. Just keep going.”

Ron gave her a stony look for a moment, then sighed. “ _I really want to be with this girl, but I have to know if it’s worth it to keep trying to get through to her, or if I’m just wasting my time. What should I do, Viola? Sincerely baffled, The Most Confused Wizard in England_.”

Pansy drew a deep breath. Her hand was shaking as she turned over his palm. In very small print, she wrote, _Please don’t give up on me._

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t, Pansy.”

Ron’s voice surprised her, and Pansy swallowed, looking up into his blue eyes. Direct. Direct was so very difficult for her. There was no help for it.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Oh.”

Pansy could feel herself start to tremble. She hated this. She hated exposing herself, knowing it was likely to end in doom and heartache.

Then Ron spoke again. “Well. That’s a very good reason.”

Pansy swatted his chest, smearing ink on her hand. Feeling peevish, she demanded, “And?”

“And? And I thought it was obvious I’d fallen for you a long time ago.”

Now it was her turn to say, “Oh.”

She considered him for a second. This had really gone rather well, then. And she was certain if she kept talking she’d muck it up somehow. So she kissed him, throwing her arms around his neck.

Sometime later, they were both covered in ink.

~*.*~

“So, we’re really going to do this?” Ron asked over coffee, later.

Pansy nodded. “Yes, I think there’s no help for it.”

“Harry is never going to let me hear the end of it,” Ron lamented. Then he grinned. He reckoned he could put up with a bit of ribbing.

“Nor Draco,” Pansy said. “Though he’s hardly one to talk. It’s all his fault in the first place, for getting married. At least we’re not doing anything silly like that.” She paused. “We’re not, are we?”

“God, no,” Ron said, though he nudged her with his knee under the table. “We’re going to enjoy ourselves. Travel. Take in the night life. Spend entire weekends in bed.”

“That sounds perfectly lovely,” Pansy agreed, nudging him back.

That didn’t mean that Ron ruled out the possibility, someday... but for now, it was enough that he’d won her over. He didn’t want to push his luck.

“Can I ask you something, though?”

Ron eyed Pansy apprehensively. “Yeah?”

“Well, your letter,” Pansy began, and Ron raised his eyebrows. What now? “Do you mind if I publish it? It’s an awfully good letter.”

Ron burst into laughter. “Yes. Of course. I’m all yours, Viola.”


End file.
